Reflections
by svuxfanfic
Summary: "Mirrors, historically, were Olivia's worst enemy. They proved to her that time could change the scenery, but the actors stayed the same." Olivia assesses her predicament after the events of Townhouse Incident, how she got there, and where she goes from here. Little bit of Tuckson, little bit of Benoah, lots of general angst because I'm me.


**AN:** One-shot followup, taking place the day after the events of Townhouse Incident. Disclaimer: I, in no way, claim for this to be a literary masterpiece. I wrote this in one day and now my brain is fried. Hopefully you reap some sort of enjoyment from my SVU ramblings.

* * *

The face in the mirror was an expired reflection. It was two years old. The swirl of purple that filled the skin around her eye, swelling it to the point of pain, belonged not to her, but to the woman who stood there all that time ago. Staring in the glass, palms flat against the surface to steady her weight. At a beach house. A hospital. Her ex-boyfriend's apartment. And now, here. Mirrors, historically, were Olivia's worst enemy. They proved to her that time could change the scenery, but the actors stayed the same.

It was her first thought when she found herself pinned to the door of an unfamiliar townhouse, not one but two guns aimed at her head - It's not over. It was happening again. It was the sickest form of deja vu. Someone with more letters after their name might call it PTSD, but she refused to take that on right now. Her load was at maximum capacity, and welcoming those words back into her life felt like throwing the gates of hell wide open, releasing the wrath into her home. Again. Looking around, she remembered the way the demons had engulfed her life in flames in the aftermath, when it was just her and Brian. If the walls around her had ears to hear and a mind to speak, they would tell the tale of shattered glass and voices hoarse from screaming. Of lashing out. Pushing, shoving, both literal and metaphorical, until their volume was flooded with nothing but alcohol and silence. And she could never allow even a tendril of that violence to touch her new life. Her progress. Her son.

In the grand scheme of her forty-eight years, there was a conspicuous chasm, a canyon separating her life into two entirely different shades. There was The Before, and there was The After. Before Lewis. After Lewis. When the world became dark and surreal, and what was mundane became frightening, and creaks in the hallway became demons that clawed at her in the night. It began an era of secrets and lies, and everything had changed. It was the beginning of what she was sure was her new forever.

And then dawn broke through the impenetrable night. Unexpectedly. Timidly. So slowly she almost didn't notice, the beams of light crawled out from behind their prison of darkness, stretching their legs and trotting her plains once more. Suddenly, the seasons changed and The After faded into something not so desolate, where hope was painted on the horizon. The light had found her in many forms. A promotion in the ranks, the healing of scars, a tiny human embodiment of love placed in her arms. And before she could process it, she caught herself smiling one day. Just a brief glimpse in the mirror was all it took to catch her off guard, paying no mind to the lines of age that etched around her eyes, because she was happy when she never thought she would be again.

And now, like an elastic band snapping her back through the fire, her reflection was the picture of the first blind shove into The After. In the grand scheme of her forty-eight years, the befores and afters and all the stumbling ground in between, where did she find herself now?

The soft padding of little bare feet across the floor adjusted her focus, pulling her up from the waves that rocked her. A stormy sea had been brewing since the moment she first felt Joe Utley's breath on her neck, nearly 24 hours ago. But she couldn't let herself focus on that, because now there was a tiny human on his tiptoes turning the door handle (God, when did he get tall enough for that?) and poking his head inside the bathroom.

"Mama?"

She pulled the "everything's fine" smile out of her old bag of tricks, feeling it fit her like an old, broken in sweater, before turning around to greet him.

"Look who's awake," she grinned, crouching down to his level.

He looked at her through big, brown eyes of worry. Detective in training. He reached out his little hand, placing his fingertips just beneath where her skin faded to sickening purple beneath her eye. He studied the bruised area for a moment, seeming to consider something in his mind before meeting her gaze.

"Ouch?" he said. And her heart flipped in her chest.

"Yeah, Noah," she conceded with a nod, "Mommy has an ouch. But I'm okay, see?"

She smiled for emphasis, holding back a cringe as the force in her muscles caused her wounds to ache even more. He didn't seem to buy it, his eyes drawing back to the bruise once more. After a moment of contemplation, he stepped closer, planting his lips against her skin in the world's most healing kiss.

"All better," he cheered through his wide grin, repeating the words she had told him a million times. The innocent gesture brought a sting to her eyes. Before she let him see her show of emotion, she gathered him in her arms, pulling him tightly to her chest.

"All better," she echoed, her voice thick with tears.

True to character, Noah accepted the gesture for all of two seconds before he was fixated on new topic of interest.

"Hungry," he pulled back, rubbing his stomach like the boy on the flashcard. She chuckled.

"Okay, Mister, let's go find you some lunch."

She hoisted him up into her arms, carrying him out to the kitchen, but froze when a loud knock sounded at her front door. She was completely still, eyes darting through the open doorway of the bedroom, locked on her front entrance as if she could see through the wood. She was pretty sure Noah could feel her heart beating against her chest as she moved him swiftly back into her bedroom, setting him down and reaching for her gun.

"Stay here," she whispered.

Swallowing hard, she took a step into the hallway, trying not to think of all the terrifying things she knew could be (and have been, recently) behind closed doors. But before she could get close enough to look through the peep hole, a familiar voice from the other side sent her blood pressure spiraling back down to healthy levels.

"Benson, it's me."

She closed her eyes and put her hand to her chest, feeling the rapid rhythm beneath her palm. Tucking her fallen strands of hair behind her ear in an attempt to look slightly less disheveled, she unbolted the lock and opened the door, reaching for that fake smile again.

"Tucker. Hi."

"Sorry to drop in unexpected," he greeted her politely, "I got out of the commissioner's meeting early and I was in the area, so I thought I'd drop by and see how you were doing."

"I'm fine. You didn't have to do that," but she contradicted her words by stepping back to allow him entrance.

"I wanted to," he shrugged, holding up the plastic bags in his hand, "Besides, what else was I going to do with all this extra take-out?"

They exchanged a knowing smile as he stepped past her, walking the food to the counter. It was clear he knew his way around her place.

"I was actually just about to make some lunch for Noah," she joined him in the kitchen, resting her hip against the counter. On cue, Noah came sprinting from the bedroom, making a beeline for Tucker's legs.

"What, you thought I was planning to sit here and watch the poor kid starve while we ate?" he jabbed, reaching down to ruffle her son's hair, "I brought some for him, too. Hey, big guy, look at you. You shot up ten feet overnight."

He stood up straight and went to work on unwrapping the food containers.

"You've got a future NBA star on your hands, Benson."

"Yeah, he's signing with the Knicks tomorrow."

"Good," he smirked, "Maybe they'll actually have a decent season."

After situating Noah in his chair with a plate of chicken and rice that was sure to be all over him and the floor within seconds, Olivia began making her own plate, only dishing out small portions as she went. She still had no appetite. Tucker pretended not to notice the skimpy serving sizes on her plate, leaning an elbow on the counter next to her. He lowered his voice so the toddler across the room didn't pick up on the vibes.

"You know, the chief was a little miffed that you skipped out on the press conference this morning."

"I can handle Dodds," she responded without looking up, "What I can't handle is having my face plastered next to another psychopath in the news. I think I've had enough bad press for one lifetime."

At this, she raised her eyes to his, but only for a moment. Immediately, the room inflated with a different color. A more serious tone.

"Speaking of, that was some pretty quick thinking you did in there," he said, "Using William Lewis as a code word."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and shrank away from the conversation immediately.

"Let's not talk about this. Or him. It's over." she turned on her heel, carrying her plate to the table. He watched her walk away from him at the counter, his eyes following her warily. Sighing, he pushed off, joining her across the room.

"It is, but it isn't," he said, trying to keep his voice firm, no matter how much he hated the words coming out. Olivia stopped poking at her food to glare up at him. She didn't like the sound of that.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Olivia," he inclined his head, "You were involved in a hostage situation. A man was beaten. A man was shot. A young girl was raped-"

"Trust me, you don't need to remind me," she snapped, instantly withdrawing. She didn't want to think about that now. Ever. She couldn't.

"I know," he nodded, noting the way she bristled at the mention, "I'm just saying, until the dust settles, it's probably best that you take some time off work."

She squinted her eyes at him. Years of experience made it second nature to be skeptical of the motives behind IAB.

"And by _it's probably best,_ you mean…?"

He closed his eyes, "Yeah. Look, it's the department's way of looking out for you."

"Because they've done such a great job of that in the past."

"I hear you," he said, "But this comes from much higher up than me. You're not to return to work until you've gotten the okay from a doctor of your choice. In the meantime, Sergeant Dodds will take over as acting commander-"

"Ah, it all makes sense now," she let out a bitter laugh, "I think I know what you mean now when you say it came from higher up."

"Good to know we share a similar perspective on the new chief," he smirked. This was enough to melt a shred of her calloused demeanor. She pushed a piece of chicken around on her plate, downcast eyes going unfocused as the silence took over.

"In all seriousness, though," he spoke softly, "It's not a bad idea to take care of yourself here. Take the time."

"I know how to take care of myself," she stiffened her shoulders. If anyone had mastered the art of self sustaining, it was her.

"I never doubted that you did," he remarked, then turned his gaze over his shoulder to where Noah was gracefully smearing orange chicken across his high chair like finger paint, "But it's not just you this time."

She stared past him at her son, but instead of the sentimentality he had surely intended, she only felt her veins filling with a cold dread. He was right. It wasn't just her. And for as much vibrato as she put on for Tucker, her squad, herself… she was terrified. The truth was, she wasn't the world's greatest care taker, even for herself. Any one night from the summer of 2013 would be example enough. What was she going to do this time if she couldn't drown out the memories with alcohol? Or take out her misplaced rage on the doting boyfriend? For God's sake, she nearly _killed_ Brian because of her PTSD. The thought alone stopped her blood cold. Surely she would never do anything to hurt Noah, but she had once thought the same about her boyfriend.

"Hey, Olivia," Tucker curled his hand over hers, the contact pulling her out of her nightmarish thoughts. Her eyes flickered up to his.

"I wasn't saying that to scare you."

"I'm not scared," she replied. It was an automatic response. Instinct.

His eyes were soft.

"I'm just saying, you've got a smart kid there. If you don't take care of yourself, he's going to pick up on it."

"Well, aren't you suddenly quite the child expert," she joked.

"Hey, if he's got half the detective skills of his mom, you're not getting anything past him."

She searched his eyes for a moment before cracking a smile and picking up her first actual bite of food.

"Old age has turned you into a softie," she said.

"And somehow it's turned you into a badass. How is that fair?"

"Maybe I always was," she popped another bite into her mouth, "You were just too busy trying to throw my ass in jail to take notice."

"Ouch," he laughed, but as he did, he studied the way her smile failed to reach her eyes. She was laughing with him, joking, but she was deflecting. He had the immense privilege of beginning to know her well enough to see that much.

Later, after Noah was down for his afternoon nap and Olivia busied herself with cleaning up from lunch, Tucker approached her in the kitchen, coming up behind her to put his hand over hers on the counter.

"Benson," his voice was low and gruff, close to her ear, "Make the appointment. Go see your doctor. Please."

She squeezed her fist around the dishrag she had been holding, hating the familiar feeling of being scrutinized. Told what to do. But if she had learned one thing about running from your demons, it was that you would grow tired of running before they grew tired of chasing you.

Tucker was right.

"I will," she said. And she would. Because she had so much at stake this time, so much to get better for. Because this wasn't the Before, but it also wasn't the After. This was just her life. This was survival. And if there was one positive thing her progression of mirror images proved, it was that she was pretty damn good at it.


End file.
